You shouldn’t be here either. And yet, here you are hidden between the marble columns of the solar garden, watching without meaning to.

He walks in, the brooch of the three-headed dragon on his chest. Hair tied back, the golden ring on his finger announcing his betrayal of your thoughts. And when he sees you, he doesn’t look away. Not now. Not after that night.

You’re not wearing the robes of the Faith. You’re not wearing the mask. Today, you are not the septon, not the devout, not the example of virtue they expect of you. Today, you are only yourself.

He approaches you As if his wife weren’t inside, heavy with his next heir.

"Vestragon daor... ñuhys byka zaldrīzes." ("You don’t have to hide… little dragon.")

He ensnares you with that cursed tongue, that Valyrian that sounds like an ancient sin whispered into the ear of a sleeping god.

You shouldn’t look at him like that. You shouldn’t feel that in your chest, in your veins, and further down. But you do. Because even though he’s a prince… that night, he wasn’t.

That night, he was just Noel. That man who knelt before you not to pray. The one who untied the knots of your faith with clumsy but determined fingers. The one who said, “The Seven aren’t watching,” before falling with you into the shadows of the sept, where only the moon bore witness.